Warm Yourself By The Fire
by blindkitten
Summary: John's been back for less than a day and Dean's already gone missing, leaving the still running Impala in a creek somewhere. The Winchesters just can't get a break. Set after Dead Man's Blood. Rating may change if needed. Hurt!Limp!Dean
1. Missing

_So, yeah. I've been thinking out this story for… like… ever, and now I'm finally posting. Aren't I great? I am. Clearly._

_Disclaimer: I don't own nothin'. But I do like borrowing! :D_

If there was anything that could cheer Dean up, it was John being back. Sam restrained a giggle as Dean belted out his music at the top of his lungs while driving. He wasn't even sure Dean would notice if his radio would cut out right now. "Wow, Dean," Sam said, looking innocently at his brother. "You're sure in a good mood."

Dean laughed loudly. "You betcha, Sammy," he replied, leaning contentedly against the door of the Impala, a huge grin plastered on his face.

Sam didn't even have the heart to correct the nickname, much less to point out that John's presence wasn't a social visit. Dean saw his slight reservation and sobered, if only slightly. "Come on, bitch," he whined, smacking Sam on the shoulder. "Lighten up already!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, alright, Dean, I'm just thinking," he said, smiling to prove it.

"You do enough of that already," Dean replied, leaning back towards the steering wheel to look at John's truck in the rearview mirror.

Sam shook his head. "Dean, you're like a dog," he said, picturing Dean with a wagging tail and a lolling tongue and sniggering.

Dean seemed to ignore the underlying offense in the interest of Sam enjoying himself and rolled down the window to stick his head out and let his tongue flop in the wind. Sam couldn't help but laugh even harder, not so much because John was around, but because Dean was just so damn happy about it. He looked like a little kid with a candy cane.

He grinned. "We should probably pull over soon," he suggested. It had been dark for a while and it was threatening to rain.

Dean brightened at the prospect of finding a motel and settling in with John again, and he sped up, flicking on his turn signal the very moment he saw an exit. Sam grinned, shaking his head. "Don't keep driving for _my _sake, Dean," he laughed, and Dean glared at him playfully as he swerved onto the exit. His eyes kept flicking to watch the truck behind them in the rearview mirror, as if he wasn't sure it would keep following.

Sam frowned, looking at Dean thoughtfully. Dean did a double take as he realized Sam was watching him and looked at him nervously. "Do I have something on my face?" he asked, then grinned, though he still looked nervous to Sam's careful gaze.

"Nothing," he said, looking back at the road, catching his brother's exasperated face before he did so. "I just… I mean… did you keep looking at me like that when I came back?"

Dean groaned. "Sam! Just because Dad's back doesn't mean we have to drop everything and have a chick flick moment…"

"I'm just asking. I mean, I was a little out of it, and… and I wasn't sure, alright?" Sam sighed. "Sorry."

Dean was silent and then brightened as if the entire conversation hadn't happened at all. "Ooh, look! Vacancies!" he cried, swerving onto the road.

Sam rolled his eyes, smiling again. "You sure _you _should be calling _me_ bitch?" he asked teasingly, earning an almost sincere glare from Dean. "Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam chuckled, turning away so Dean wouldn't see his smile fade a moment later. Dean parked, letting Sam stay in the car as he eagerly checked them in, looking at his father's black truck like it was an angel. Sam shook his head and laughed some more. Dean was back in a moment with a goofy smile on his face, showing the keys to Sam as he sat into the car. "Room 156," he said, and from his tone, that could have easily been his favorite number.

"Great, Dean, let's go park," Sam said, trying to sound just as excited instead of greatly amused at his brother.

"Don't mock me, Sam," Dean muttered, but he continued in his invincible happiness all the way inside the motel room, carrying both duffels in. Sam marveled at the amazing event. Usually, if both duffels were carried by Dean and Sam was still conscious, Dean would whine his lungs out.

John followed them in, taking his own duffel. Once the three of them were inside, John sat down on one of the beds, looking at his sons as though expecting something from them. Sam looked at Dean, who was awkwardly rocking back and forth and watching John, occasionally looking at Sam as if begging him to start a conversation instead of him. Sam, for the life of him, couldn't think of anything.

"Hey!" Dean said, blurting with epiphany. "Um… what… how… about I go get us something to eat, huh?" He nodded at them proudly. "Who's up for Chinese, a little celebration food, huh? F-for a job well done, that is."

"Sounds good, Dean," Sam said, saving Dean from humiliation. Dean nodded at him gratefully, rubbing his hand behind him.

"Wouldn't mind it," John added, smiling.

Dean looked as though heaven itself had shined on him and all but bolted out the door. As soon as it had closed, John lowered his head and chuckled quietly. Sam couldn't help but join him. His father slowly tapered off and looked at him softly. "So, Sam," he said, and Sam could tell he expected his son to sit beside him. He did so, silently followed by John's eyes. "Why don't you… ah… tell me something about Stanford, huh?"

Sam laughed breathlessly. "You sure you're my dad?" It was said jokingly, but he almost flinched at the bite behind it.

John smiled ruefully. "If you feel better about it, you can always talk about what you and your brother have been up to."

Sam nodded awkwardly, then realized he was making the wrong motion. "Nah. I'll… uh… I'll tell you about Stanford." He sifted through his memories to find a story his father might want to hear. "Well, there was this one time I thought our language professor was a banshee, but… lemme tell ya how it happened."

John sat back, smiling slightly, glad at the happiness in Sam's voice as he went on with his slightly rambling and backtracking tale.

An hour passed, and nothing was seen or heard from Dean. They brushed it off as the fact that a small town might not have Chinese, and continued with their much needed talking.

Two hours passed, and Sam had called Dean's phone three times, always getting the answering machine. John had started pacing, but he nonetheless tried to come up with ways to consol Sam.

Three hours passed, and John was looking through the weapons assortment and Sam was coming up with the excuses.

Four hours passed, and the truck swerved onto the road, John driving even worse than Dean did and Sam not caring at all. They tried every road, one by one, looking for any sign of Dean.

Five hours later, and Sam saw a glimmer of light from the bridge. "Stop!" he yelped, grasping desperately at the door to see closer. John slammed on the breaks to hard, it was lucky Sam didn't fly straight through the windshield as he unbuckled his seatbelt and leaped out of the still slightly moving car. John cursed and threw the truck into park, following after Sam.

Sam slid down the side of the bride, half falling, half running. It had been raining for a while now, and mud had made the banks of the small ravine slick, but neither Winchester slowed down for it. Sam's boots sloshed into the mud beneath the bridge and he stopped, eyes wide with horror. John slid beside him and mimicked the reaction.

Under the bridge, headlights still shining, the Impala reared up, tipped nearly on its side in the water. "Dean!" Sam roared, falling forward and nearly diving into the tiny creek a few times on his way. "Dean!"

John followed after, pushing himself behind Sam as Sam wrenched the door open. The keys were in the ignition, the engine was still running, but one thing was missing. Dean. Sam stumbled back and looked around. "Dean!" he cried. John took a moment to pull out of his stupor, checked every nook and cranny of the car, and followed suit. "DEAN!"

They both stumbled around, boots slipping on the slick mud, calling out for their missing family. John came up, panting, beside Sam. "He's not here, son," he gasped. "Wherever he is, he's not here."

Sam leaned his hands on his thighs. "Then where is he, Dad?" he asked, looking up at John, hoping to find an answer.

John shook his head. He had none. "I don't know. But we'll find him," he said, his voice going Winchester determined. "We'll find him, Sam."

… _I think I actually know where I'm going with this. I realize it's very short, but I'm not really started yet, so… we'll see what happens to chapters as I go on. Like it? Hate it? Review! _


	2. Where is Here?

_Chapter 2! I'm totally writing this in school instead of finals (because I don't have any)! Yay! I hope you enjoy, this was what I could finish before next period. I haven't answered reviews because my email is being weird and I can't even figure out what review is what. So thanks to ANYONE who reviewed, and I hope you continue to like it!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything. At all. Ever._

Consciousness came to him in bouts. First, his ears popped like they would after a pain, then the fuzziness crawled into his brain. He was slowly aware of soft blankets around him and the sound of a record playing some kind of crappy opera around him. He opened his eyes with some difficulty. There was a wall above him, slanted, placing him in an attic of some kind.

He sat up and looked around. It was a nice attic, with shining hardwood floors and patterned carpets lining the way to the stairs, which were framed with carved, artistic railings. He rubbed at his eyes, looking around. He had been tossed unceremoniously onto a bed, his head sinking into the piles of green, satin pillows and his legs sliding off the mattress. The bed was squeezed into a corner, guarded by two bookshelves that towered on either end.

"Sam?" he croaked. "Dad?"

He blinked slightly. Dad. That was right. John had been with them. He rubbed his head, which responded with a dull ache. There had been vampires, they had disobeyed an order, killed some vampires, saved John, and he'd stayed. Dean blinked. That much he remembered. He remembered driving, bickering with Sam, pulling over, but as he tried to trace his memories they got fuzzier and fuzzier.

He'd gone out for food, right? He was driving in the Impala, looking for something to eat… Chinese, maybe?

He tried to remember after that but came up blank without fail. He looked around the neat attic, the green walls, the matching pillows and rugs. It seemed like a cozy place, not a monster's lair. The music in the background scratched, drawing his attention. He stood, wobbling slightly before gaining his balance, deciding to find the source of the music. Maybe it would come with a person, someone who could explain what was going on to him.

He'd probably managed to get hit by a car or something while getting food and had murmured something about 'no hospitals' to the driver who had taken him home in pity. He just hoped that his car hadn't been involved, because if there was even a scratch on the Impala he was going to blow a gasket.

There was a faint light coming from above the stairs which lit his way. As he passed the electrical socket, he realized it was a nightlight. He shook his head at the faint protections people seemed to deem necessary, but he guess a silly little night light was worth not tumbling down the stairs head first. He walked down the stairs.

It was dark downstairs, and he bumped into a few bookshelves, stools and a piano before he found something looking like a lamp. His hands searched blindly for a switch on it, and he finally found it. With some fumbling, he turned the lamp on.

And then stumbled back from it as fast as he could, hitting the piano and smashing on of the ornaments on it to the floor. He could feel his breath coming faster.

The lamp was made of a skull. A real, honest to God, and Dean could tell the difference, human skull. The light bulb was attached above the skull, a mockery of the "Light bulb!" moments of humanity. In the neat, color coded decoration around it, the skull-lamp was a clear message. Whoever owned his house was not an innocent bystander.

The music stopped. Dean had honestly never heard a more terrifying silence. He ran to one of the windows and smashed it out with his elbow. Or rather, he tried to. The glass didn't give way, his elbow bouncing off and sending a shock of pain down his nerves. He cursed, looking around in panic for the nearest door.

He ran to the next room, which then opened to a hallway. At the end of the hallway, there was a door, large and beautiful, a door to the outside. He ran for it, not stopping until his hand was on the doorknob and his body was flush with the door. He tried to turn the knob, but it would not give way. He cursed again, throwing his shoulder against the door. It didn't budge, and he stumbled back, surveying it.

It should have come down. It wasn't a big door, wasn't that bad, but it stood straight. Unless he had weakened considerably since last being awake, that door was made not to budge by something supernatural. It said quite a bit about his life that the second option was more likely.

He looked around desperately. The house was like a maze, doors heading into rooms on all sides, hallways here and there going who knows where, but he could see white tile in one of the nearby rooms through the two doors in between his current hallway and the room. He hoped that was the kitchen, and ran for it.

As he skidded on the tile, he could see pots and pans on the clean counters. He sighed in relief and started shifting through drawers. "Come on, come on," he whispered. He found a knife which looked, to the best of his judging ability, like silver, salt, and an iron skillet, then gripped the knife and the open salt shaker in his hand, the skillet on the floor next to him, and crouched defensively.

It was not a moment too soon, he realized, because the floor creaked nearby just a moment later. He braced himself for whatever was about to come as the footsteps, almost silent, drew nearer. A figure stepped inside and he didn't wait to see what it was before tossing the salt on it and throwing the knife into its leg. He would apologize later if he was wrong.

The figure didn't even stop. He could see now it was a woman, tall, with a good figure and long blonde hair. He didn't stop to admire her, though, and dove for the skillet. As the woman neared, he leaped up and hit her with all his might with the skillet.

She swayed slightly, the weight of the blow pulling one of her feet from the floor for just a moment, but she snapped back in just a second, grabbing onto his wrist with one hand and pulling the skillet from him with the other. She smiled, her lips bright red and perfectly curved. "Dean," she cooed. "Do you really think I'm going to go through all this trouble to take you and leave you a working weapon in the house?"

She didn't allow a reply, however, her hands latching onto his upper arms and lifting him onto the counter, smashing his head into the cabinets roughly. His head swam with the impact, but he did his best to sit up straight. He tried to form words, come up with a comeback, but she was already speaking again. "Points for effort, though," she said, one hand freeing his arm to wrench his hand out in front of him.

He curled his fingers into a fist instinctively, trying to kick her away. He would have had more luck wresting a rhinoceros. She pushed him against the cabinets with ease and uncurled his pointing finger with her own pointer and thumb.

There was a loud crack as the forced finger was snapped like a twig. It was the same arm that he had used to unsuccessfully try to break the door and the window with, and the resulting spasm of pain sent reverberating twinges through his shoulder and his elbow. He gasped for air, feeling nausea and dizziness hit him full power.

The woman (or whatever she was) threw him to the ground. He brought his hand up to his chest protectively, catching himself with his good arm, and used the momentum to run, taking any twist and turn he could find. He ran until he needed to take a breath, finding a small cranny between a sofa and a wall in which to hide for a moment. It seemed that the woman hadn't followed him, because as he tried to catch his breath with his hand clasped over his mouth, nothing happened.

He gasped for air. Panic bubbled up, but he forced it down. There had to be a way out. A way to fight her. He shook his head. What did this creature even want? He hugged his broken finger protectively. It didn't matter. All that matter was to stay alive until he found a way out or his family came and found him.

Nevermind that he had no idea how to do that.

_Hope you enjoyed! It's a little rushed, I know, but I might have another chapter up today! Review, however you feel about it, good, bad, it's all good!_


	3. Break

_All chapters posted today are dedicated to Mr. Weir who had no finals this week and let me go and use the computer lab both of his finals periods. And apparently he baked me a cake that I have never even seen. Go figure._

_Disclaimer: If I owned things, would I really be writing this from a computer lab while I'm supposed to be doing finals?_

Sam rubbed at his eyes. They had been researching all night, looking through the missing persons records, town legends and looking for possible witnesses. One person had seen a black car well behind the bridge where they had found the Impala, but they hadn't noticed anything strange at all. There were no real legends – one about a haunted house that had been demolished ages ago. The missing persons records were sparse, and Sam and John had been sifting through them all night.

"Wait, wait," Sam said suddenly. John looked at him, dark rings under his eyes crinkling with thought. He leaned back and crossed his arms as Sam flicked through a few news articles. "This guy was going from the exit to the gas station." He pointed. "The nearest gas station is past that bridge. "

John leaned forward. "The car wasn't found, though," he said, rubbing at his face. "If it was the same thing, why leave the car once and not the other time?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted, but pulled up another article. "But this guy was on a bike. Look, motel to the bike trail. It mentions hills. The hills are over that way…" he pointed. "… past the bridge."

John leaned forward. "And they found the bike under the bridge."

Sam nodded. "It's not much, but it's a start," he said, shrugging in encouragement.

John nodded as well, putting his head in his hands. He paused for a moment and then looked back up, eyes bloodshot. "Alright," he said, pulling his hands from his face as though it hurt him to do so. "Now what?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know." They sat beside each other in silence. "Let's keep looking into this guy. Maybe they found something, huh?" He picked up the laptop, quickly searching the first victim, a guy named Michael Carlson. The search pulled up a ton of finds, and Sam kicked himself mentally. Of course an average, run of the mill name like that would turn up everywhere. He tried again, adding the name of the town.

"Alright," he said, scrolling through articles. "So, I guess the guy was just passing through, had never been here before," he summarized as he read. "And after a while, the family started looking for him a week or so after he disappeared. He'd miss his cousin's wedding. Someone recognized the guy's picture, and he told the family that he'd given the guy directions. Apparently the…" he looked up hopefully. "The guy who saw him had a photographic memory. He knew for sure he'd seen the guy coming into town but not leaving, and the gas station employees said they'd never seen him."

He sighed, looking at other articles. John leaned forward, interestedly. "So, they kept looking for him here, and they…" He stopped, swallowing and looking up at John.

John looked at him. "And they what?" he growled when Sam made no move to continue. "What, Sam?"

Sam looked about ready to vomit. "They found him."

"What?" John cried. "What do you mean, they found him?" Sam was silent, not looking up from the computer screen. "Answer me, dammit, that's an order."

"An order, Dad, really?" Sam snapped, looking about ready to start a row with his father. John tensed, ready to fight back if his son yelled at him. Sam shook his head, slumping suddenly. "Nevermind. Us fighting isn't gonna do Dean any good."

John looked away, ashamed. He'd been picking a fight to make himself feel better, and it was just wasting Dean's time. Sam sighed. "Anyway, I meant what I said," he explained. "They found him." He turned the computer around so John could see. "Dead."

John looked at Sam, who was pale, then looked at the photo. He could see what had shaken Sam up so bad. He had seen a lot of people die. He'd seen them die fighting, die surprised, die peaceful, hell, even die grinning if they were nuts enough. But he'd never seen anyone look so broken. Like the world had been ripped from them and even dying wasn't enough to ease their pain. The eyes were still open, dead and resigned and yet still pained and frightened. There were few injuries, a leg jutting out in the wrong angle, a small bruise on the chin, but it was more terrifying than any carcass John had seen ripped to shreds.

Imagining his son deathly still with that look on his face made him want to vomit as much as Sam seemed to be about to. "And the biker?" he asked, pushing the laptop back. He didn't want to. He wanted to take that picture and get it away from little Sammy, never speak of it again. But that wouldn't help Dean.

Sam was silent for a while, clicking absentmindedly. "Same story. Passing through, told the maid he was off to ride on the bike trail, they looked for him after he didn't check out, found him dead." He shoved the laptop to his father, burying his head into his arms. This one was as bad as the last, the same brokenness to it. It might have even made it worse that John couldn't distinguish any injuries. Apparently, Sam thought the same, because he pushed himself up from his arms, his eyes slightly glassy and added, "He… ah… his foot was broken and he had a few cracked ribs, maybe a concussion." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "What could do something like this? Some kinda… I don't know… I mean, you think it's even supernatural?"

John shook his head. "I don't know. And honestly, I don't think I have the strength to figure it out," he said. He knew that every legend he looked at, he would imagine Dean suffering through it, slowly being broken into the mess they'd seen with the other two. Sam looked up, surprised. John hated himself sometimes. That Sam could look so shocked when he showed fear for them… that was just bad parenting. He looked away, pulling out his phone. "I'm calling Bobby."

He dialed the number, refusing to look at Sam. Every ring seemed to cut into him like a knife. Finally, a gruff voice answered, sounding to John like music. _"Singer."_

"Bobby, it's John." There was a silence. _Please, Bobby, don't hang up._

"_Yeah? Wha'dya want, Winchester?"_

John rubbed at his face. "Bobby, it's Dean." There was another long silence, but this time it didn't seem so angry. "He's… he's gone, and we need to know what took him."

Silence. _"Alright. What'cha got so far?"_

John looked at Sam, who reached out wordlessly for the phone. "Alright, Sam's here, he'll fill you in."

He handed the phone to Sam, who launched right into it. "Alright, Bobby, we're at a small town just near Lexington, Nebraska, alright? The victims so far are Michael Carlson and Andrew Eisenhower." He waited, then smiled bitterly. "Yeah." John watched Sam's face, seeing the pain in it. He was closer to Dean than anyone, and this couldn't be easy for him. "He went out, didn't come back. We found his car, still running, under a bridge." He waited, then nodded. "Yeah, we'll take care of ourselves, don't worry." He nodded again. "Thanks, Bobby."

He hung up, sighing and looking at John. "He's working on it. He'll tell us if we find something." He looked at his father sheepishly. "And he says we need to sleep."

John scowled, then realized that Bobby, as usual, was right. "He's right. We're no good to Dean dead tired, and there's not much else we can do." Sam nodded, but John could see that he didn't expect to sleep tonight. He wasn't sure he would either, and if he did, he'd have some terrible nightmares. "Try to sleep a little, alright?" he added softly.

Sam forced a smile. "Yeah." He stood, walking to the bathroom. "Sure."


	4. How Many Times?

_I haven't forgotten about this story! I've pretty much got it all planned in my head, I just need to write it. I've had a new computer that didn't have Word on it, so it took me a while longer to type this up than it should have. It's also shorter than usual, but it pretty much cut off where it cut off and I didn't want to stretch it just because, so I hope you're satisfied and I'll try to post more soon!_

_Disclaimer: Pshya. I totally own Supernatural. And Yoda's totally a young whipper-snapper._

Dean had no idea when he'd fallen asleep or how. He woke stiff and sore and with a terrible taste in his mouth and he had about three seconds of discomfort before he tumbled back into panic. He wanted to run, try to get out something, anything, but he knew it was useless. This thing that had him was stronger, faster, better acquainted with the playing ground, but there was no reason to think it was smarter.

He breathed deeply for a few moments, trying to stifle his feeling of helplessness that drove him to flail out like a spooked horse. He had no idea what this thing wanted from him or how to get out, but he knew that somewhere on the outside, Sam and John were looking for him, and they would find him somehow or other.

What he had to do was stay alive for them to find him. Which meant that he had to avoid this thing, since he couldn't fight it and it probably wanted to kill him, given his experience. He swallowed. He wished he knew how long he had been asleep. Hell, he wished he knew where this thing was. He wished he knew where he was. He wished a lot of things that he wasn't getting.

_Suck it up, sweetheart, _he thought to himself, suddenly feeling a surge of hope. He had a mission now. Stay alive, stay hidden, wait for Sammy and Dad. Wasn't much, and he'd pretty much thought it all already, but it was something to _do_.

He moved to crawl from his hiding place, hissing when he went hurt hand first. He looked at his snapped pointer. It was awkwardly bent, swollen badly. He had to do something about that. He tore the cuff from his shirt, awkwardly crawling with one arm into the room. He perched beside the sofa, halfway hidden, and looked around the room. Seeing nothing, he stood slowly and looked around.

Seeing a pen, he snatched it up. He braced it against his leg and snapped it to the length of his finger, then used it as a brace between his pointer and his middle finger, wrapping it in the cuff to top it off. He twitched his fingers a few times to test it. His finger still hurt, but it didn't move as much. He breathed out a breath and crept into the next room.

It was too damn perfect.

He stared at the phone, and for all intents and purposes, it was staring right back. Slowly realizing something, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

"Son of a bitch," he whispered.

It was a trick. It had to be. He would dial up Sam, and he'd be screwed over somehow. No signal, the thing would appear from nowhere, something. But damn, if she was just screwing with him and the only reason he wasn't calling was because he was afraid it was a trap…

Or maybe she knew there was no point, something that had just hit him like a slap in the face. If he called Sam, what then? He didn't know where he was. He looked at a window, hoping to get a view of something outside, but they were tinted. He didn't know what he was up against or how to kill her. All he knew was that he'd woken up who knows when, who knows where, and he was screwed.

But at least they would know he was alive. That he was mostly OK. That he wasn't torn apart in some gutter somewhere, another statistic in a series of monster killings.

He dialed Sam and waited for one ring, two rings, "DEAN! Where the hell are you?" He could hardly breathe. Maybe he'd forgotten for a second how scared he'd been (still was) and how nice it was to hear Sam's voice, even bellowing into his ear.

He almost got out something before the hand clamped over his mouth. The phone slipped from his hand and clicked closed. He was pushed down to the floor, his wild kicking taken for granted. He would never, ever admit it if he ever got out of this alive, but at that moment, he burst into tears. He was scared and he had just been torn away from Sam, his greatest source of comfort.

He was also tired, hungry and a little worse for wear, in his defense.

"Dean," came a vaguely familiar voice. "You can't have _really _thought that would work."

He wanted to quip, growl at her some snarky come back and pretend that he didn't have tears running down his face and that he wasn't helpless as a baby, but her hand was still clasped over his mouth, taking away that one little comfort from him. He kicked, hurting his legs and feet more than her and screamed profanities that didn't even form whole sounds, each action more pointless than the next. It helped, but not enough.

He blinked away his tears, breathing in through his nose to regain his composure. And as soon as he did, he wanted to scream and scream and never stop screaming. She pulled her hand away and smiled at him, sitting back to pin his legs with her own weight. It didn't matter, though, because he'd forgotten to struggle.

"Please," he blurted, his throat dry and working without his brain, which he wasn't sure was working at all anyway. "Please, no. No."

"Dean," came the soft voice, unmistakable now. "Begging already?" That tone was not alright in that voice, that smile was not alright in that face.

"Please, do anything to me," he continued, unable to stop. The thing had found the one torture he couldn't stand, no matter how hard he tried. "Anything. But not as my mom, please."

The face of his mother stared back at him, smiling in a way that her face should have never smiled, sending white hot pokers of pain through his very soul. Her one hand found his wrist, and his finger throbbed as he tried to pull it away. He was well beyond tears at this point.

Dean Winchester was bawling, pleading and begging.

"Please," he whispered desperately one more time, and she smiled at him, her look indecipherable, then snapped his wrist.

_Dun dun dun! Still with me? Review! Leaving in disgust? Review anyway! Ta ta!_


	5. Lifeline

_I got some amazing reviews for this, and I'm so glad everyone likes it! I'm just hoping I can keep up the good work for you guys, because I have plenty of ideas coming up!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own it. Swear. My last disclaimer was sarcastic._

Sam was shaking like a leaf. John stared at him. "Sam?" he asked, but Sam couldn't pull the phone from his ear. "Dammit, Sam, what's going on? Is it Dean?"

He'd been listening to the dial tone, frozen in place, for who knows how long now. His father was about to stand up and beat an answer out of him any moment now, but he couldn't bring himself to pull the phone from his ears and tell him how _close _he'd been to Dean. That would only acknowledge that he wasn't close anymore.

"Sam!"

"It was Dean's phone."

"And?" John asked through gritted teeth.

"He didn't say anything. It was muffled. Someone had a hand over his mouth." He'd heard that sound enough times that he'd know it in a second. That in itself made him sick, because for Dean to let someone get the jump on him enough to put a hand over his mouth and hang up the phone, he needed to be in over his head in trouble.

"And that's all? Nothing in the background or any other voice?" John growled.

"No, Dad, don't you think I'd mention that?" he snapped.

John glared at him, and he glared back. His phone, still in his hand, rang, sending him nearly a foot in the air. He had been sitting on the bed, but he shot up to answer the phone. "Dean?" he asked, hoping beyond anything he'd ever hoped before that it was his brother again.

"_It's Bobby. Why, you hear from Dean?"_

Sam felt his shoulders slump. "Not exactly. He called, but something had him gagged somehow. The call lasted maybe three seconds."

"_D'ja get anything from it?"_

Sam sighed, glaring sidelong at his father. "Nothing," he said irritably.

"_You been fighting with your dad again, haven't ya?"_

"Not quite."

"_Well stop." _Sam reared back from the bite in Bobby's voice. _"Dean'd do nothing but look for you two if you were in trouble, and you owe him enough to pull your heads outta your asses and stop arguing while this thing's got 'im. We all know he's in big trouble, and you need to focus on getting him outta it before there's nothin' left of him to save, ya hear?"_

Sam gaped, guilty about ready to snap him in half. "Yeah, Bobby," he replied, hanging his head. "I hear you." He blinked away tears. "What'd you find out?"

"_Fat lotta nothin'. There's no pattern here. I found some other victims, and they're all over the place. The bridge is in common for three, but there's somethin' like fifteen, seventeen victims here over a few decades, and none of them look too pretty."_

"Well, can you get anything from where they turned up?"

"_I'm working on it, but it doesn't look good. Looks like the bodies were dumped wherever there was room for 'em, and there's no way to be sure where these people vanished from to start with."_

Sam rubbed a hand over his face, looking over at his father, who looked antsy and worried, pacing back and forth over the vaguely vomit colored carpet. "Do you know what this could be?"

"_No idea. Could be a nasty spirit, some kinda creature, who knows." _There was a long pause. _"Listen, I know this is hard on you guys. I figure you need someone a little steady. I'm headin' down there, and you're gonna deal with it, ya hear? Jim Murphy and Caleb are on the research, so don't even try to argue that road."_

Sam could feel himself choke up. "Thanks, Bobby, really. It's probably a good idea to have you. And… I'll … We'll try not to fight anymore, promise." He could hear his father sink down into the bed, and when he looked up, John looked nothing short of crushed.

"_Don't mention it."_

The line went dead and Sam put away his phone, looking at John. "Sorry. I snapped at you back there."

"I didn't help any," John said, rubbing at his face. Sam didn't think he'd even seen his father so close to crying. "Bobby's right, we can't waste Dean's time butting heads. Like you said, half the time, we don't even know what we're arguing about, and no reason's not a good reason to let Dean go."

Sam nodded, not sure who the reasoning was for but feeling he needed it anyway. "What now?" he asked, and the question fell through the air like lead.

John sighed deeply, looking as though he'd rather sleep and cry for an eternity than pull himself from the bed. "Who was the witness? The guy who saw the one victim?"

Sam walked over to the table, scrolling through the articles. "No name," he sighed, swallowing hard not to let his eyes tear up. He couldn't remember if they'd already established that.

His father leaped to his feet again, pacing angrily. "So we've got no idea what this thing is, no idea where it's working from, no idea where to start looking for it, and goddammit, there's no clue as to where Dean could be. Anything else you'd like to add to the list."

Sam wanted to reply when his phone rang again and he snatched it up to answer it. "Hello?" he growled, hopelessness threatening to strangle him.

"_Sammy."_

He felt like he'd been punched in the gut. "Dean? Oh, God, Dean is that you?"

There was a little sniffle. _"Yeah, it's me."_

Dean's voice was weak, wet and hoarse, and Sam was dizzy with both relief and fear. "What… how'd you get to the phone?"

"_She just left it here. Don't think she cares, since I… I can't… I don't know where I am, Sammy." _Dean sounded terrified, which in turn terrified Sam.

"She?" Sam asked, meeting John's eyes. They were fixed on him, not a muscle in his father's body moving, every fiber in his being focused on figuring out what Dean must have been saying to his youngest. "Who's she?"

Dean moaned, choking slightly on a sob. _"She… she… Oh, God, Sammy, find me, please, find me."_

"Dean, calm down. We're gonna find you, OK, but we need to know anything we can't about where you are and what's got you, alright?"

Dean's responding sob was slightly muffled, as if Dean had pressed his own hand over his mouth to silence it. _"I'm in some kind of house. It's… it's big, I know that. I think it's on a hill, because it's got one floor in some places and three in others, but maybe that's just her screwing with me."_ He drew in a shaky breath, but he seemed to be calming. _"She's… she's some kind of shifter, but she can see into my head, 'cause she turned into… into…" _His voice cracked and he sobbed.

"It's OK, Dean, I've got the picture, just keep going, alright?" he soothed, hoping his words calmed his brother. "Do you know what she wants?"

"_Nuh. She keeps coming and breaking stuff and then just leaving me to sleep and call you and… and… I don't know, I don't understand…" _His brother was panicking again, breathing heavily.

"Shh, Dean, shh. What do you mean, breaking stuff? Are you hurt?"

"_My… my finger and my wrist, that's all. Not that bad, it's just… the way…" _Dean gasped, his voice fading into repeated sobs that he didn't even bother to suppress. _Good God, his brother was crying._ _"Sam!" _Dean cried, half squeaking, half screaming. His voice lowered to a soggy, breathy whisper. "_Oh, God, Sammy, she's coming. She's coming, I don't know what to do, I can't… I can't do this again."_

"Dean, hide the phone. Now, Dean, you have to hide it, and maybe we can track you, alright?" They should really all have GPS trackers imbedded in their bodies.

"_Uh huh. I just…"_

"Dean, we're working as hard as we can to find you. You're gonna be alright, and you're going to hear my voice again soon, now please, Dean."

There was a small shuffling noise as the phone was crammed into the nearest cranny Dean could find. Sam looked at his phone, hoping. As long as that call was going, they had a life line. They could track Dean, pinpoint his location. If they lost the signal, that hope was crushed.

John had shuffled closer, looking over his shoulder as they both held their breaths, to afraid to even pray.

It took Sam minutes to interpret the words on the phone telling him that the call had been ended. He wasn't sure who realized it first or how long they spent staring at it, then each other, or who had started sobbing like a baby first or who had gone down to the floor first or how long they had kneeled on the floor in each other's arms, rocking back and forth and crying their eyes out, disregarding that they were worn, grown men that were usually too stubborn to even admit they loved each other.

All he knew was that Dean was out there, scared and alone, watching his one hope close shut with a click.

_I believe this is my longest chapter so far, and I'm totally going to hate waking up tomorrow, but whatever! Hope you enjoyed, and please, please review, regardless of what you think. Also, next chapter should have a weeeee bit of answers (sort of), so look forward to it!_


	6. Mom

_I had something like half of this written for almost a week now, but I've just now finished it all in one night. So… yeah. Anyway, hope you'll like it! It's a wee bit of a twist on things! :D_

_Disclaimer: I own so little, I'm hungry. Or maybe that's just me ignoring that I need to eat._

It had been his intention, before everything had gone to pieces, to put on the 'always strong' act for Sam and so try to convince himself of it at least a little. He'd been all ready to breathe deeply, joke and snigger about the trouble he was in, and then he'd heard his brother's voice and had entirely broken down. As his phone clicked shut in front of him, it was clear to him why.

"You made me say that stuff," he accused. The anger pushed away some of the fear, and he was glad for it. "You totally Obi Wan-ed me."

The shifter pulled up a chair and sat down in front of him. "Mmm, sort of," she said, shrugging. Dean found himself concentrating on her mouth so that he wouldn't have to see his mother's face taunting him. "But opening the floodgates is a lot easier than forcing words into your mouth." She rose, and Dean watched her legs move towards him and squat in front of him. "You really are scared."

"Go to hell," he hissed, finally managing a glare. She grinned, reaching up to stroke his hair. He jerked away from her. "Don't touch me, bitch."

She smiled softly at him, suddenly stopping the twisting of his mother's face and looking so much like her it hurt. "Now, Dean," she cooed. "What does that make you, then?"

He glared at her even harder, wishing looks could kill so that his problems would be solved. "You're not my mother." She cocked her head, smiling sadly. "You're a crazy shapeshifter, and I'm gonna kill you."

She reached further to grab at his head, and he couldn't pull away anymore, his head slamming against a corner. "Dean," she said softly, and for a moment, he wanted to be wrong, wanted her to be real. "There's no such thing as shapeshifters."

He blinked, slightly thrown off, but there was no time for a response before a horrible pain spiked through his head, like a white hot poker extending from her hand and skewering his brain. His vision faded into spots and forgot how to breathe before the pain resided. "There… are shapeshifters… and you're one of them," he gasped, making sure to keep up the fight just on principle alone, but the declaration sounded ridiculous the second time around.

"Dean, don't be silly. There's no such thing as shapeshifters." His head exploded again, and he just held his breath and hoped his head wasn't _actually_ exploding.

His head was still spinning when he tried a third time. "You are not… my mom," he breathed, coughing. "You're a…" His stomach dropped when he realized he had to think about what she was. "… a shapeshifter."

"Dean, sweetie, you're just having a dream," she said, her voice cool against the fire in his brain. He was starting to wonder why he was still arguing with her, when the idea of a shapeshifter was sounding more and more dreamlike and he so wanted to just be with his mother.

"No," he wheezed. "You're…" His brain had stopped entirely and he couldn't remember what she was or what she was supposed to be, just that he had to fight her for some reason. "You're not my mom."

She stroked his cheek and reached for his forehead. He flinched away impulsively, then glared weakly at her. Her fingers brushed against his head, making him jump when instead of causing him more pain, they were cool and soft. "What else would I be?"

It felt like a math test, when you sat there knowing you knew the answer and wanting nothing more than to just dredge it out of the dark somewhere in your head but just not getting there. He opened his mouth to say something and only managed a little rusty squeak. "I… you're a dream," he managed.

She smiled at him sadly. "Do I seem like a dream to you?"

He leaned into her sweet smelling touch for just a moment, wanting to curl up next to her and sleep. "Yes," he mumbled, and she laughed softly, like a fairy. He blinked, pulling away suddenly. He had to fight her. Had to. Couldn't remember why, but he had to. "You're dead. You're… you're a zombie," he whispered as a last resort, the idea sending flurries of fear through him again. He renewed his fading struggle to get away from her, startling when he rediscovered the wall behind him.

"Dean!" his mother laughed, looking amused. He felt vaguely insulted. "Don't be silly. Things don't come back from the dead."

He shook his head, trying to pull away. "You're not mom," he moaned, though he _so_ wanted her to be his mother, wanted to wrap himself in her comfort and never come out. Her hands were on his forehead again and pain was spiking through his brain again, sending him thrashing violently against the wall.

His head dipped forward and he almost let blackness claim him. The pain faded and his mother's face slowly swam back into his view. "M-mom?" he asked, his head throbbing. He vaguely remembered he needed to fight her. There was _something _wrong. He struggled to put his finger on it.

The fire flashed into his head and then spread through his body.. His eyes widened and his breath caught in his chest. Suddenly everything was on fire, there was fire running through his veins. He wanted to scream but everything had clenched, everything was trapped within his pain, every thought and breath and movement. His mother's voice sounded in his head, washing a small reservoir of coolness into the fire.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," she said. "I try so hard to erase memories in order but sometimes you just end up with incongruencies and it's not pretty."

Her hands slid over his face and he let oblivion claim him.

-X-

Consciousness came back to him in waves, hearing cutting in and out every few seconds, then a blanket of warmth covering him like a bath. He tried to remember where he was. He could vaguely remember having been scared, but only in the terms of having had a nightmare he couldn't remember. He opened his eyes, his vision hazy. "Sam?" he croaked, slowly pushing himself up.

His world tipped awkwardly, and he fell forward, the floor being a lot farther than he'd though it was. Soft arms caught him, pushing him gently back to the soft surface he was on. Feeling the armrest beneath his knees and beneath his head, he figured it was a sofa. He blinked away the dizziness and looked up at the familiar face above him. "Mom?"

She nodded. "Don't sound so surprised," she said softly. "I've been right here for days."

"Days?" he asked. "What… what… Where's Sam?"

His mother stroked his hair, brow furrowing in worry. "At Stanford. Don't you remember?"

He looked at her, confused. He did remember Sam being a Stanford, yes, but he remembered Sam being with him, with him and John. "But…" he protested, trying to sort through what he remembered and what still bewildered him, but it was like untangling a pile of wires. He shook his head and sat up. Mary sat beside him, her arm snaking around his shoulders. "I dreamed you were dead," he told her. And it had seemed so real too, with the fire hot against his skin…

"So you told me," she replied, smiling and playing with the hair behind his ear.

He suddenly felt a profound sense of shame. "I think I thought you were a monster."

She chuckled, pulling him closer and kissing his forehead gently. "You were feverish. You said I was a shapeshifter."

He smiled at her sheepishly. That did sound familiar. A wave of dizziness hit him again, and he leaned into her. "There's no such thing as shapeshifters," he said, his head comfortable against her shoulder.

"That's right, Dean," she murmured into his ear. "I'm glad you're feeling better ." She wrapped him into her arms and cradled him tenderly.

He was considering dozing off again when her arm moved away. Feeling an inexplicable panic, he clutched at it, pulling it back to his chest. "Stay," he pleaded.

"Alright," she replied, sounding startled. "Alright, I will. I didn't mean to scare you."

He snuggled closer to her. "Sorry," he breathed. "I just… it seemed so real."

She pushed him to the side slightly so that he could see her face, her eyes honest and loving. "Hey. It was just a dream, OK?" Her one hand brushed at the hair on the nape of his neck and he felt himself being drawn closer to sleep. "I'm not dead, and I'm not going anywhere."

He nodded lazily. "I know." He swallowed, realizing how dry his throat was. "I'm really thirsty."

She smiled, brushing a few short strands of hair from his forehead. "How about you come with me to the kitchen to get something to drink?"

He nodded, and she slid from under him and helped him up. He was a little unsteady on his feet, but it wasn't that bad. He pulled his hands from hers and walked alongside her as she went to the kitchen. He felt a little dizzy again when he realized he had no idea where the kitchen was, but her fingers gently circled his elbow and guided him, and the revelation was dismissed as unimportant.

"What would you like to drink?" she asked, leading him a counter. He looked at it, feeling that it reminded him of something important. He looked down at his arm, seeing the brace around his wrist and his fingers. Mary placed a hand on his back. "What's the matter, sweetheart?"

He blinked. "What happened to my arm?" he asked her.

"You tried to go to the bathroom without telling anyone with a fever of a hundred and five," she answered, trying not to smile. "I'm guessing you don't remember." He shook his head. "Does it hurt?"

He smiled at her suddenly, brushing away his doubts. "No, it's fine, really." He thought. "Do we have any apple juice?"

She nodded, still concerned but smiling anyway. "Of course we do." He leaned against the counter and let her bring a glass of apple juice to him. "Do you need anything else? Are you hungry?"

Now that she asked, he realized he was. "Yeah."

"Why don't I fry you up some burgers? I can pull you up a chair if you're not feeling well."

He shook his head. "It's OK," he answered, pulling himself up onto the counter. "I'll just sit here."

She shook her head at him and went to the refrigerator. In moments, some of the most delicious smelling burgers he had even been witness to were frying on the stove. He watched his mother cautiously, as though she were a butterfly he was privileged to see, treasuring every move as she flipped the burgers onto buns and added cheese and extra onions exactly the way he liked it.

She handed him the plate and he dug in, savoring every bite. It felt like the best cheeseburger he'd ever eaten in his life and it was gone too soon. Mary grinned. "Good?" she asked teasingly.

"Mhmm," he sighed contentedly. She took his plate from him and placed it in the sink. He was getting tired again, but he didn't want to say anything. He would rather just bask in his mother's glow right here, the smell of burgers still in the air.

She looked at him, seeing his lidded eyes. "Maybe you should go back to bed. You've been sick a while and you need your rest."

He shook his head. "I'm fine," he said, repeating the words he had said so many times before.

She reached over to him, smiling, and carded her hands through his hair. He almost tipped off the counter as he leaned into her touch. "Dean!" she cried, steadying him. "Why do you always try to be so tough?" She laughed softly, cocking her head.

"Dad…" he started automatically, unsure of how to finish. Dad need him. He couldn't really remember why. There was a faint sense of needing to protect Dad and Sam from something, but the something still escaped him. To resolve his confusion, he simply repeated, "Dad," figuring John Winchester explained himself.

Mary suddenly looked worried, and he frowned at her, trying to figure out what he'd done to upset her. "Darling," she said, slowly, as if he was delirious or a small, confused child. "You never knew your father."

_CLIFFIE! Woo hoo! Let me know what you think! Review!_


	7. Redheads and Advil

_Wow. Plenty of reviews for the last chapter, and really good ones too! I feel like Santa, bringing good cheer to all with… my awful torment of Dean Winchester. Oh well. Anyway, enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: If you seriously still think I own Supernatural, you, sir, are a mollusk._

Sam was exhausted. He had to have been just to fall asleep at all, especially in a cramped chair on top of his overheated laptop. He leaned back and tried to muster up the strength to wipe the drool from his keyboard. Instead, he rubbed at his eyes with the back of his wrist. "You OK there, boy?" Bobby asked him from behind his book.

He nodded, looking at John. He was leafing through another one of the books Bobby had brought. His shoulders were hunched, and Sam could see the faint tremble in his fingers. He was glad Bobby had come, because he didn't think he and his father would have ever picked themselves back up off the floor and gone at it again if it weren't for Bobby doing it for them.

He tried to go back to his research, but the black squiggles on his laptop no longer formed words. He sighed, standing and grabbing his duffel, trying to ignore the pang of sadness as he saw Dean's right beside it. He sorted through his things, then Dean's and sighed. "We're out of Advil," he said, rubbing at his head.

"You want me to get some for ya?" Bobby asked, watching him carefully.

He sighed. "No, I'll get it myself. I need some air anyway," he replied honestly. The motel room was to constricting, to full with the agony of him and his father. "I'll be back soon."

John looked up, seeming worried, but he said nothing and went back to looking. Sam was fairly sure he couldn't make out the words anymore either. He left quickly before he could start to think about how useless a phone or a car had been to Dean. He took the truck, heading to the first gas station, trying not to think too much about the bridge. They had dredged the Impala from the creek when they had first found it, but he felt as though it was still there, still running and empty.

He pulled into the gas station and walked in, carefully sorting through different brands until he found the regular, small bottle they usually got. He stared at it, sighed loudly, put it back, and grabbed a larger one. He walked to the cashier, who was smiling at him understandingly. She had red hair and bluish green eyes and Dean would have been flirting with her in a second.

He placed the bottle down before her, hunting for his wallet with his head bent so she wouldn't see the faint prickle of tears. "That kinda day, huh?" she asked, her tone belying that she didn't get much business and was bored.

He looked up with a forced smile. "Yeah," he answered. She shrugged apologetically, as if to say, "We've all been there, done that." Something clicked in his mind and his stomach lurched with hope. "Actually, this may sound creepy out of context, but you might be able to help. Are you from around here?"

She looked at him, amused and uncertain, ringing up the Advil. "Sure I am," she replied. "Why?"

"Well, I'm a reporter." The cashier made a small 'ah' sound and leaned on her side of the counter, clearly glad to tell him a few stories to ease her own boredom. "I'm doing an article on urban legends, you know… crazy rumors and stuff?" He placed his hands on the counter and relaxed into a chatting posture.

She made a thoughtful face. "Well, I can't think of any off the top of my head. I mean, my old elementary had this _really_ creepy statue of Humpty Dumpty in the cafeteria…" She smirked slightly at the memory.

"Actually, a friend of mine mentioned one he'd heard passing through here, and I thought it would fit with the direction I'm taking, but I can't remember it."

"Oh, that's the worst!" The cashier leaned forward with a grin. "Maybe I've heard of it, if you remember any."

"Like I said, I don't remember much, but he said…" he tried to remember what Dean had said on the phone. "… he said something about a house on a hill."

Her brow furrowed and she bit the inside of her cheek. "Well, there's no stories like that I know of," she said, and his heart plummeted into his shoes. He swallowed to keep from breaking down in front of her completely. "But there is this house."

He didn't dare to hope anymore. "Really?" His throat had gone dry. He couldn't breathe.

"Yeah. Up in the hills, it's built on a hill so that it's three stories in some places and two in others, you know?" He nodded breathlessly. That matched what Dean had told him. "Anyway, it's got tinted windows, and it's obvious that someone keeps it up, but no one knows who. It's sort of creepy stuff." She paused. "Does that help?"

He scrambled to regain his power to speak. "Yeah," he said, his suddenly dead brain struggling to find a way to further his overwhelming discovery.

She smiled at him, pulling his receipt from the register. "Here," she said. "I'll draw you a map so you can check it out."

He was fairly sure that she was only volunteering so that she could slip her number onto the paper with it, but if he didn't die on the spot from happiness, he would be willing to marry this girl.

-X-

He had probably given Bobby and John both heart attacks with the way he had burst into the motel room, receipt flying like a battle flag from his hand, but he couldn't bring himself to give a damn. "I found him!" He cried, unsure whether he was giggling or crying or both. "I've found him."

He collapse on the bed before his knees gave out entirely. John was beside him, surveying the map in his hands, mouth opening and closing without sound. Bobby came up beside them. "Don't forget, we still don't know what this thing is," he reminded them.

They both looked up blearily at him. "Silver," John croaked. "Silver will probably work."

Bobby looked between them, obviously seeing that Sam and John united could never be defeated. "What if it doesn't, though?" he reasoned.

Sam looked at the map. "It has to."

_Things are finally looking up a little! Anyway, I'll see how fast I can get another chapter up. I'd try to get the next one up today, but it's my brother's birthday and we're going out to eat soon, so no guarantees. However, reviews will make me work faster, right? *shamelessly begs for reviews*_


	8. So It Has Come To This

_So, it's been a crazy week or so, and I haven't written nearly as much as I wanted to, despite having planned literally every word of this in my head weeks ago. *sigh* Such is life._

Dean stared at her. A thousand memories of John Winchester came to mind, and he blinked at her. Surely… he tried to think back, but many of those memories were foggy, as though something important was being missed in every one of them. "No," he croaked. "I do. John Winchester."

She shook her head gently. "Dean, sweetheart, Winchester is _my_ name. Your father has been gone a long time."

He shook his head, a frightening haziness coming over him. "I… no." He stumbled back, everything swimming out of focus. She reached out for him, and he batted at the sudden onslaught of hands, confused and scared. "Mom?" he called out blindly.

She may have said something, but it was lost in the sudden roar of pain that brought him to his knees and washed out the whole world. He could see his dad in front of him, see the dark eyes and the black beard and the way he looked at Dean, loving but strict, but focusing on the image was like trying to look at his own nose. The more he looked the more it hurt until he couldn't remember what John looked like anymore.

The pain was too much. He was going to snap in half if it didn't stop, and for a moment, he thought the warm sensation spreading through his stomach was just that. He had split in half and his blood was soaking through his shirt. He slowly came to realize that it wasn't an unpleasant sensation and the pain was slowly receding.

He could see the ceiling from the way he fell back, a hand in between his shoulders and an arm around his waist all that were supporting him before the warmth spread to his brain and everything was soaked away by a sea of bliss.

-X-

With a small smile, the shifter looked down at the unraveled hunter in her arms, his legs sprawled beneath him and the rest of him hanging limply in her arms. His face had gone completely slack, his eyes open and a low gurgling in his throat. He was blown so high that he didn't even notice her pulling him into her arms and lifting him as she stood.

"Aw, sweetie. A girl could almost feel bad about feeding off a sweet little boy like you," she cooed to him, lifting him to her face and breathing in his scent, the fiery sweetness of his energy. She could feel her mouth water. She inhaled the spiraling excess of his life force and he moaned gently, stirring in her arms. She pressed a kiss to his forehead and watched his eyes roll as he tumbled back into ecstasy.

She carried him back to the attic, laying him among the green covers and gently brushing at his soft, blonde hair. She drew his energy away from him slowly with her fingers, like pinching crumbs from a cake. He tried to crawl back into wakefulness a few times, but she repeatedly pushed him back down, letting him float in her spell as she drained him to the point where he could barely move his arms.

She sat back, finally letting him regain his surroundings. She didn't want him to burn out too soon, or she would miss the best part of toying with him. His eyes struggled to focus as he woke. His inability to move awakened an automatic panic in him, and he tried to sit up. "S- s'mmm," he mumbled, trying to see if his brother was in the room with him.

She smiled and twirled a lock of short hair in circles with her fingers, searching out Dean's memories of Sam. His eyes suddenly fixed on her, an unprecedented recognition in her eyes. She wanted to giggle at him, praise him for being her best meal so far. "No," he rasped, face twisting in desperation. "Please, no."

"It'll all be over soon," she told him gently, and she was almost sad to say it. Such a tasty, fun meal would be hard to come by any time soon. Maybe after he was dead, she would go after the little brother, slowly turning herself into Dean. She licked her lips in anticipation.

He squirmed weakly against her, and she pinned him down with her free hand. "Please," he pleaded, a low sob rising to the back of his throat. "Please, do anything to me, but don't take my brother, please."

She continued to dissolve the memories one by one, and he sobbed in terror, trying to remember Sam when he was little, then Sam as a teenager, then finally just hanging onto the sure knowledge that he had a brother and that that mattered. He tried to beg her further, but his words were strangled by the sobs. She paused for effect and tore that last little anchor from him. He cried out and then went limp, crying silently in confusion.

He was all hers now. Her throat was dry with anticipation and she laid her palm on his head and dove in for the kill, draining him. He moaned quietly. "Mom," he gasped, hardly able to speak anymore. "You're hurting me."

"I know," she said, tasting his confusion, his sense of betrayal.

He jerked in confusion, trying to gain purchase on the situation somehow, then tried again. "Mommy, you're killing me." His voice was pleading and small, a child trying to understand how his beloved mother could turn against him.

She waited until the last moment to respond, then leaned down to whisper in his ear, "I know."

She drew back to watch the look in his eyes, the sense of betrayal and agony in them, leaching out the brightness and leaving only brokenness and death. She had worked so hard for this last delicious bite, and she was not disappointed. She reveled in triumph and then jerked back with the bang of a bullet in her chest.

_Sorry that took so long! I hope you liked it and I'll try to be fast with the next chapter, especially since I left everything so up in the air!_


	9. Black Eyed Susan

_I've been meaning to write, I wanted to update sooner than this, but I had some stressful times and it sort of got put on hold. Then, I looked over the stuff I had written, and, I think because I didn't have my heart in it, it was crap. So, I'm rewriting. Sorry for the wait and thanks to anyone who's been with me or reviewed (the reviews are amazing, people, thanks!)_

_Disclaimer: Hah. Don't own._

Sam couldn't remember much of the drive, even though he'd given the directions the whole way. He didn't remember coming into the house, even though he'd broken down the door. He didn't remember finding the shifter, even though he'd led the way. He didn't even remember how she'd died (if she'd died, didn't really matter anymore), even though he'd been the one to pull the trigger.

All he could think of as he collapsed beside the bed that held his brother, looking unharmed but at the same time mangled to the core, was that Dean wasn't breathing. His father was somewhere behind him, but in his desperate tunnel vision, he couldn't tell quite where. "No," he whispered, unsure if he was crying or John or both. "No, no, nonono, Dean, no, please, don't do this, no."

But Dean didn't move, his eyes focused on the ceiling, terrible emotions trapped in them eternally, his chest still. "Oh, God, Dean," John sobbed next to him, sending a wave of fury through Sam.

"No," he hissed. "No. We are not going to lose him, not like this." He struggled up to his knees and tilted Dean's head back. John got the message, but getting up and placing his hands over Dean's heart seemed a gargantuan task for his father. He did it anyway, looking at Sam.

It was a blur. Some part of his brain just couldn't get up to speed with the idea of breathing for his brother. This was the third time in his life he'd taken over breathing for Dean, and it still didn't compute. It just didn't, because there was no way Dean, his invincible brother could be incapable of breathing for himself.

And yet here he was, his mouth over Dean's pumping air from his lungs to Dean's.

Behind him, Bobby whispered, "Aw, hell, Dean," and he turned involuntarily. His eyes settled on the face of the shifter, the face of his mother, then he looked at Bobby. Getting Dean breathing would only be the start of the battle, he realized.

As if on cue, Dean drew in a shaky, labored breath. He sounded as if he had an elephant on his chest, but Sam's eyes were instantly riveted on him, deciding that sound was the best he had ever heard in his life. "Dean?" he squeaked, his voice cracking with emotion. Dean fought in another breath, then another, slowly blinking once.

He closed his eyes, eyelids fluttering in the attempt to open them once again, but he failed. Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Shh, Dean, rest."

Dean twitched slightly, presumably the most movement he could manage, then went limp. Sam watched him, cherishing every breath. John collapsed beside him, his position bringing him face to face with the shifter. He went pale, blinking at it a few times before looking at Bobby.

"'Zit dead?" he asked, sounding as though he hoped it wasn't so that he could kill it a few more times. Sam would have agreed if he didn't fear for Dean so much.

Bobby nodded. "You two wanna burn it just in case?"

He didn't have to ask twice. Sam and John were instantly up on their feet, grabbing accelerant from the car. Bobby hobbled over to Dean. He was fast asleep, his face not exactly peaceful but rather blank with exhaustion. It looked like he had two black eyes, he was so tired, and the rest of him was pale as a sheet. He kneeled down, patting Dean on the cheek. "Don't you worry, Dean. We'll get you better if it kills us," he whispered.

The stares creaked, and he pointed his gun just to be sure. It was Sam. "Come on, Bobby, we're torching the whole house." He walked over to Dean as Bobby straightened up. He paused for a moment, staring at Dean's moving chest, then lifted his brother gently into his arms. He grunted slightly with exertion, but he didn't waver once afterwards.

Bobby took one look at the fallen shifter, a cruel copy of Mary Winchester, then followed Sam. They walked out to the truck, Sam settling Dean gently into the back seat. Bobby stayed beside Dean as Sam eagerly joined John to eradicate this nightmare from their lives. He didn't watch the flames, not wanting to take his eyes off of Dean.

The two Winchesters came back to the truck after the flames had crept to the attic where the shifter had died (and so had Dean, for a while) and John made for the driver's seat. Bobby stopped him. "Let me drive, John," he said, and John looked at him for a moment before going around to the passenger side without a word.

Sam crawled into the back, lifting Dean gently into his arms as he sat. "It's going to be OK, Dean," he whispered, mostly to himself, then closed the door.

Bobby looked at Sam in the rearview mirror. "How about we… we go pick up the Impala and you can drive back in that. I'll drive the truck." He paused. "Might be better for Dean." _And you two too, God knows it's the closest thing ya idjits have to home._

Sam nodded, looking relieved. "Yeah," he rasped quietly. "Let's do that."

All three Winchesters were asleep by the time Bobby parked the car a little ways away from the mechanic's, so he quietly crept out of the truck to get the Impala, driving it up beside them. He got out and leaned into the driver's seat, looking at the three of them. They hadn't even stirred, even with the door opened twice, and Bobby wasn't sure he wanted John driving, but he knew it would help them.

"Up an' at 'em, you sleepin' beauties," he said loudly, starting John and Sam out of their sleep violently. Sam's head shot into the window and he cursed, a small mumble from Dean waking him the rest of the way up. "Dean?" he asked hopefully, searching for a sign that his brother was waking. "Come on, open those eyes for me?" Silence settled around them, and Dean seemed to have fallen only more so into sleep. Sam sighed, looking up at John, equally disappointed.

"It could take some time," Bobby soothed them. They both nodded sadly. "Come on, I've got the Impala."

John came around, standing awkwardly beside Sam as he lifted Dean, stumbling slightly this time. He put out an arm to steady Sam. "Should I take him?" he asked.

Sam shook his head, his eyes pleading, and John let him carry his brother to the car. John sat into the driver's seat, and Sam settled Dean in the back before coming over to the passenger seat. Bobby leaned in the window. "Don't you two be stupid. Drive safe, and if you're about to fall asleep at the wheel, pull over. We don't need a car crash on top of all this. We can always get to Jim's later."

They had agreed to head straight for Pastor Jim's when they found Dean, take a few days to recuperate. But lo and behold, they didn't stop for the night. Sam slept while John drove, then John slept while Sam drove, and they were at Jim's the next day. He was welcoming, even more so as soon as he saw Dean, still unconscious and pale with dark circles under his eyes.

"He looks better than he did," Sam said, his voice rough with exhaustion. He looked ready to topple over, but he carried Dean inside anyway. No one said anything, not even when Sam's knees almost gave out halfway to his destination.

Bobby was just glad that John and Sam both slept, even though they only would in uncomfortable chairs beside Dean's bed.

Three days later, an IV having been long since administered, Dean finally woke. Sam was talking to Pastor Jim at the time, and hadn't noticed Dean's eyes open until he fell straight out of bed, tearing the IV from his arm in the process. He was on his feet in a moment, diving after Dean, who crawled quickly into the corner between the bed and the nightstand, terrified.

Sam froze, looking at Dean's wide, green eyes. They were darting all over the place, unrecognizing of the room he had been in so many times. "Dean, it's OK, you're safe," he said, and gladly Dean's eyes focused on him. At least he could hear his voice, but he didn't seem to recognize Sam, because he still gasped in fear, tears coming to his eyes. "Dean, it's me, it's Sam," he said, soothingly, reaching for Dean.

Dean shied away, his voice hoarse and little more than a sob when he spoke. "Who?"

_So yeah. I sort of switched POVs here a little, hope that's not… confusing, because it was really the only way I felt it fit. As usual, hope you liked and… review!_


	10. Fear

_Ok, so… This chapter is the last one I've planned to the letter, so I'll have to try and keep up after this, but… yeah. I've got some ideas._

_Disclaimer: Let it be disclaimed that I own SPN. 'Nuff said._

Sam felt as though he'd been punched in the gut. Dean had been through some tough times, been delirious with fever, had his head all but smashed open, been two seconds from unconsciousness, but he had never been unable to remember Sam. Never.

"Sam," he repeated, more forceful this time. "Sammy? Your brother!"

Dean flinched at the loudness of his voice, then burst into sobs of terror. "I don't have a brother," he gasped, wiping weakly at his tears.

Sam felt Pastor Jim's gentle touch on his shoulder, and he fell back like he was made of paper. Pastor Jim knelt in front of Dean, holding his hands out to placate Dean. "It's alright, Dean, I'm not going to hurt you, I promise, alright?" Dean nodded, but his eyes followed Jim's hands cautiously. "Sam, go get your father."

Sam was out the door before a feather could have dropped. He thought of the shifter, the childish way that Dean shied away from them. Maybe he didn't remember anything from after Mary had died. Maybe he remembered the days before Sam had even been born. That, somehow, frightened him less, and he quickly searched out John, hoping Dean would remember him. "Dad, come quick, Dean's woken up," he said.

John didn't need to be told twice, the cup of coffee that had been in his hand smashing to the ground as he barreled to his eldest's bedroom. "Dad, he doesn't remember me," Sam cried as they walked, almost ran, to Dean. He could feel tears coming to his eyes, and John cast him a quick, worried look before bursting into the room.

Pastor Jim seemed to have wormed his way slowly, gently into Dean's confidences, because Dean had allowed him to put a hand on his shoulder, and was slowly relaxing into loud, coughing sobs that always came when one tried to reign in panic and violent crying. When he saw John, tall, menacing and still racing towards him, he once again shot back up against the nightstand, eyes darting around in pure, unguarded fear.

"Who are you?" he cried desperately, trying to look at all three of them at once. John startled back, holding his hands up. "What do you want from me?"

Jim reached to console him again, but he jerked away. "Please, I just want… I want… I… please…" He was pausing and gasping between his words, and suddenly, Sam realized it wasn't just sobs. It was that Dean was trying to figure out what to ask for. "I want my mom!" he managed, but then he curled in pain and his sobs ramped up to wails, almost screams. Sam stood rooted to the spot, wanting more than anything to pick Dean up and cradle him, but not wanting to frighten him more. This was the greatest pain he could have ever thought of.

Bobby swept past him, coming from nowhere and kneeled in front of Dean. Jim yielded to him, scooting over to allow him room. Bobby grabbed Dean's face in both hands, gentle but firm. Dean flailed and kicked in blind terror, but he was much weaker than Bobby and Bobby could easily push him back down.

"Listen to me, boy," he growled at Dean, who struggled to pull away from Bobby, protect himself, but Bobby turned him again to face him. Dean suddenly stopped, seeming petrified, his eyes wide and his whole body shaking. "Listen." Dean nodded quickly. "That thing that was trying to kill you, that was _not _your mother, you hear? Your momma would'a never hurt a hair on your head, you know that."

Dean nodded, his whole body shaking with a small sob. "Where is my mommy?" he asked, pleading.

Sam and John were almost collapsed with pain at this point, but Bobby's voice stayed even. "She's not here right now."

Dean raised a hand to wipe at his tears and Bobby let him go to allow him. "Please, I just want my mommy."

"I know, Dean, I know," Bobby said. "But she left you with us, and you've gotta trust us, alright?"

Dean nodded, rubbing the back of his wrist absently across his face. "I… I don't feel good," he mumbled.

"Yeah, I know, kiddo," Bobby said softly, grabbing the corner of the blanket on the bed and wiping away Dean's tears for him. Dean let his arm drop limply to his side and looked at Bobby tired and relieved.

"Do I know you?" he asked, looking ashamed.

"'Course you do. You just don't remember right now, that's alright," Bobby said. "Now come on, let's get you to bed. And don't you be scared, your momma loves you and you know it."

Dean nodded, standing weakly with Bobby's help and letting the older man help him into bed. Bobby took the covers and tucked Dean in. Dean yawned quietly, and Sam stumbled beside him, reaching to card his hand through his brother's hair, then instead rubbing his shoulder gently. "I'm sorry I scared you, Dean."

""S OK. I'm sorry I don't remember you."

"It's not your fault, Dean." Sam could feel tears coming to his eyes and tried to swallow them down to the point that Dean wouldn't notice them and be alarmed.

Dean closed his eyes for a long time, then opened them. "I'm sorry, but… who are you again?"

Sam smiled sadly. "Sam. Just Sam."

Dean's brows furrowed, and he mouthed the name absently to himself. He looked back up at Sam, shrugging apologetically. Sam tried not to burst into tears. "Thanks for taking care of me, Sam," he whispered, closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep.

Sam wiped his own tears from his face, whispering back, "Always, Dean." He felt his father's hand on his back and looked up at John, also crying.

Bobby waited until Dean was fully asleep, then gestured for Sam and John to follow him. "Alright, ya idjits," he started once they were in the hallway, crossing his arms, and that was already enough for two of the most stubborn people in the world to be reduced to melting statues of shame. "You can't do this. I know you're used to Dean being the only person in the world to deal with you two, but for now you've gotta be gentle with him. He's scared and confused and weak right now, and you can't just go about ignoring how he actually feels like you usually do." It was a bad sign that neither of them protested, just bowed their heads. Bobby sighed.

"I know you two are just trying your best, but you can't push him. He'll remember when he remembers, and you two need to live with that fact that you're not the center of his universe at the moment. He needs you right now and you've gotta set yourselves aside and give _him _the focus he's given you all his life."

"I just got scared," Sam mumbled, barely audible, looking like he wished the ground would swallow him up. "He's always remembered me, I couldn't figure out what was wrong with him."

"I was trying to help. I wanted to hurry to him as quick as I could," John added.

Bobby softened at their lost looks. "I know. But you two have to tone it down, ya hear?" The both mumbled their agreement. "Now, I've figured out what this thing is." They both looked up at that, desperate for explanations. "Didn't really find a name, but it's a shifter – and a telepath. It turns into the person ya love most, usually someone deceased, then slowly plays with ya and takes away yer memories until you're nothing but gooey hash for it to drink right up. It finds what you have to stay strong for, then takes it away so you're all hers. My guess is, Dean doesn't remember hunting either, and he has no idea that his momma's dead. What's left in his head can't make much sense to 'im, so he's probably just gonna get more confused as he gets more lucid, but one thing I can tell ya. When he remembers about Mary, it ain't gonna be pretty, so… let's let him recover a little before we give it away, huh?"

They both nodded, determined to do whatever it took for Dean.

_So… finally some answers? Yes, no, maybe so? Whatever the case, review!_


	11. The Woods

_So I think this is coming to a close – there will be maybe another two, three chapters. I will, however, be posting another story soon, since I've got the plans, I just don't wanna start it until this one is finished. If you want, check it out too! Thanks to anyone who has read this far, whether they reviewed or not, and special thanks to anyone who _has _reviewed. Enjoy this next installment!_

_Disclaimer: I just saw a really funny disclaimer that I can't remember, which frustrates me, so I'm not even going to try to be clever. Take that, brain._

The next morning, Dean was feeling better. Sam knew, because he was currently wolfing down his sixth sunny-side-up egg. He was carefully eyeing Sam, and though this wasn't exactly his brother as he was used to him, he was fairly sure that it wasn't so much out of caution as trying to estimate his chances of getting more chocolate milk. Sam sighed and poured his brother another glass.

Dean put his fork down and reached eagerly for the glass. "You're nice, Sam," he declared, and Sam tried not to flinch at the way his brother said Sam – without the usual love and worship.

"Yeah, well, I'm just glad you're feeling better," Sam said, smiling tiredly. He hadn't slept well, troubled by nightmares of his mother, caught on fire, ripping at his brother's prone body.

Dean smiled at him, his smile lighter hearted and happier than Sam had ever seen it. For a small, small moment, he wished that Dean would stay this way forever, not knowing what was out there or what had happened to his mother or what kinds of burdens were shoved on him all the time. And then, with some sense of shame, he decided that he wanted his brother back, no matter how adorable this other thing was in front of him, grinning at him with a chocolate mustache.

Sam picked up a napkin and gently wiped off his brother's face. "There," he said, patting Dean's head.

Dean narrowed his eyes in the way that three year olds do when they try to glare. "You killed my mustache," he accused, and Sam laughed, the first real one that he had laughed since he'd last seen Dean.

"I did. What are you going to do about it?" he challenged, kneeling in front of Dean.

Dean crossed his arms and glared. "I won't like you anymore," he threatened loudly.

Sam grinned. "Fine, jerk, see if I care."

Dean opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, suddenly growing somber, his brow wrinkling. Sam stared at him, his mouth going dry. "Dean… are you remembering something?" he asked.

Dean was silent, then finally shook his head. "No. I… when you said that, it felt like… like I should, you know?" Sam nodded, silent and thoughtful. "But I can't remember why." Dean squirmed, as if to shrug something off his shoulder, grimacing slightly. "It… it feels wrong. Like… there's a whole in me." He fixed his eyes on Sam, as though asking him to kiss it better.

He pulled his brother's head down to his lips, planting a small kiss on his forehead, then letting him go. "How about another glass of milk?" he asked, at a loss of how else to help.

Dean brightened instantly, nodding. Sam was just glad that he had an excuse to turn away to hide his watering eyes. "Hey, Dean?" he asked, pouring the glass.

"Mhmm?"

He turned around and handed his brother the glass, and Dean watched him contentedly as he lapped up the milk like a cat. Sam smirked at the image. "I just… why do you trust me so much if you don't remember me?" He certainly couldn't see Dean letting a stranger kiss him on the forehead without putting up a fight. He could hardly see Dean letting _him_ do it, even normally, without whining about 'Samantha' and 'personal space.'

Dean shrugged, his green eyes sparkling thoughtfully, a sharp cleverness in them that Sam though he probably hid normally. He lowered the glass slowly, thought a little more, then said, "You're cozy."

Sam stared at him for a moment, then burst into giggles. "Cozy?"

Dean blushed, shrinking down into his chair. "Yeah," he answered defensively. "Cozy. Like… safe and… home… like. Warm."

Sam stopped laughing, gazing at Dean. Dean looked right back, eyes wide and sincere, looking as childish as could be. Sam smiled. "Thanks."

Dean nodded curtly, eyes suddenly snapping to the door just as John walked in. He shrank down even further, tracking John's every move, suddenly wary. John rubbed his eyes and forced a smile. "You're up," he said to Dean, who nodded quietly. "Feeling better?" Dean gave another silent nod, then watched as John walked to the coffee maker, helping himself to the coffee that Bobby had made sometime before anyone was awake.

John looked at Sam, who gave a sympathetic smile. "Dean's been eating well," he volunteered.

John grunted softly, which told Sam that he was taking it hard that Dean was still afraid of his own father. Dean, however, seemed to take a different meaning from it altogether. "You don't like me much, do you?" he muttered.

John whirled around and Dean shied back, finding no more room on the chair. Seeing Dean's pale face, John sagged, tottering over to lay a hand on his son's cheek. Dean flinched, but he didn't move away. "Dean," John said quietly. "Of course I like you. I love you, son."

He gave Dean a small shake, and Dean swallowed, his eyes roving John's face. Sam thought he saw a faint glimmer of recognition, so small that he was afraid he'd imagined it, and Dean gave a frightened little nod, his hands clenched on the sides of his chair. "Okay," he said, in a way that said, 'I'm only saying this because I want you to leave me alone now.' John backed away slowly, and Dean took the opening to dive beside Sam. Sam lifted his arm to put it over Dean's shoulders and looked at John, not sure whether to feel sorry for John or to wonder why Dean was scared.

Dean buried his face in Sam's shirt, clinging to him. Sam looked up at John. "I… Dad… maybe you should just leave."

John's eyes were full of tears, but he nodded and left the room like he was being chased. Sam waited until Dean decided the coast was clear and unknotted his fingers from his shirt, then kneeled, his hands on Dean's shoulders, so that he had some sense of security. It was the way he dealt with children, lowering himself beneath them, and that was the way he had to deal with Dean now too. "Dean, what's the matter?" he asked softly.

Dean hung his head in shame, shaking it slightly. "I… I think I remember something."

Sam searched his brother's face, seeing Dean struggle with emotions he didn't understand. Even without memories, there was something that his brother was so trained to be silent about that he couldn't say it even when he didn't know why. Sam tightened his grip on Dean, who whimpered imperceptibly and avoided his gaze. "What, Dean?"

Dean looked up, his mouth moving silently a few times, when he finally managed, quietly, tears choking his words, "I think he's hit me before."

-X-

They had been screaming for hours.

Pastor Jim had been trying to calm them down, occasionally getting them to fall silent. In those times, he would come out and try to coax Dean's state of wellbeing from him, but Dean couldn't answer past his tight throat. He couldn't move, couldn't say anything, he could only sit on the stairs, hands over his ears and a guilty, all-consuming pain flowing through his veins. It wasn't normal, for this to hurt so much, and he couldn't remember why it did.

That scared him. It all scared him, the screaming, the blanks in his mind, the way thinks would flash out in familiarity and not make sense. Scared him to the point that his heart forgot to beat in its usual pattern, instead fluttering wildly in his chest, scared him to where he couldn't pull in a breath and his vision would go black.

Bobby had come back a long time ago, joined the fray and produced the longest spell of silence yet. He sat with Dean a long while, asked him about things, told him about things, tried to get him to speak. Dean wanted to speak, but he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to pull his hands from his ears and say something. He felt as though he had been turned into a statue, not really living but forever frozen to hold his hands over his ears and try to block out the fury that kept going even after the voices stopped.

They had started back up again, of course, louder than ever, and Bobby had stayed with him for a while after that, then had left him again to try and keep them from killing each other.

It was a flash of white that had Dean moving again.

It was dark outside already, the whole day faded into a war zone, and Dean had been staring aimlessly out the window for most of it. He hadn't seen anything, hadn't really heard anything, because the words outside of the yelling had been drowned and the ones in the yelling made no sense to him, because they were involving him in ways that he didn't remember being involved.

But the white jumped out. Maybe because it moved, maybe because it stuck out from the black trees, or maybe it was because he knew it so well.

His mother's nightgown was white. It always had been. Always. That memory was clear as day, and it extended through his life without questions or foggy spots. That memory was so clear that the white thing moving was suddenly the only thing that mattered, the only thing in his world.

He got up and followed it. No one heard him go out the door, loud yelling still permeating the house. He was unhindered as he crossed the cemetery, rushing into the woods. "Mom?" he called. There was no answer, and the white descended deeper into the woods. "Mom?"

Cold was seeping into his bare feet and his bare arms, the wind brushing through his hair, and he considered going back to the house. But for some reason, his mother was out _here _and inside there was only incomprehensible yelling and scary men who might have hit him once. He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, then continued on to find his mother, who was going deeper into the forest.

The further he went, the darker and colder it seemed, the less sound his voice made when he called out for his mother. The white bobbed before him, tantalizing, so close, and he felt a thrill of fear. Where was he? How could he get back? Would his mother know the way after he found her? Why was she running from him?

A branch brushed against his shoulder and he stumbled, thinking they were hands. The motion spun him, and for a moment he was left falling away from one imagined monster after the next, finally falling against a trunk to calm himself. He looked around. There was no such thing as monsters. And even if there were, they weren't here. No matter how much the branches seemed to be reaching for him, they weren't monsters. Just trees. Dark, dark trees.

He had lost sight of the white. He panicked, calling out frantically for his mother. "Mom? Mommy? Where are you? Please, Mom!" He whirled around in dizzy circles before finally seeing the white, fluttering in the wind but finally stopped. He lurched forward, reaching for it in relief, his hands brushing against it.

It was plastic. Not cloth, plastic. He brought it closer, surveying it. It was a plastic bag. He had gotten lost in the woods for a plastic bag.

A sharp wind picked up, feeling hot in its coldness. Hot like fire.

Fire.

Suddenly, Dean was on fire.

He was burning, burning with the house, burning with his mother, and the fire was so hot and the smoke was so dark.

Oh, and there were monsters. They came with the fire, and they were everywhere, faceless and reaching and snagging into his arms as he flailed about wildly, trying to get away from the fingers and the fire and the oh-god-my-mother-is-dead that were all drowning him.

His foot caught in a root and he fell to the ground, hands tangling into his clothes and his hair, prodding him this way and that.

He curled in on himself and screamed himself hoarse.

_Err… yes. Review? :D_


	12. OK

_So I don't know what was up with this week but I didn't want to post any more until the glitches seemed to be okie dokie again. So anyway, here we go. I've got to finish this before I can't resist my other ideas anymore. XD_

_Disclaimer: I have never owned, I do not own, and I will never own._

There were precious few things that could be said to stop Sam and John from arguing, but one of them was definitely, "Dean's gone."

It took them a moment to realize that Pastor Jim had said it, and when they did they were suddenly united again. "What do you mean, gone?"

Bobby came back from the stairs. "He means gone. He's not here anymore."

"Well, then where is he?"

"Gee, I don't know, maybe he went somewhere quiet where he wasn't scared to death by you two idjits makin' a war instead of caring about him," Bobby growled, glaring at them.

Sam spluttered. "Oh, so _I'm _the bad guy now? Take it up with the abusive parent!" He glared at John, who immediately flew at him again.

"Everything I did, I did you keep you boys safe!"

"Including _beating _Dean?"

"It only happen a few times!"

"Yeah, why? Because you were drunk?"

Sam and John were almost nose to nose at this point. Bobby stepped up and wrestled them apart. "Haven't you two done enough?" Bobby yelled at them. "Now, Dean's out there somewhere, he's confused, it's cold, and it's dark. So put it aside," John and Sam both moved to protest, and he cut them off. "BOTH of you, because we need to find him. Now."

They both gritted their teeth and stormed out the door in silence. Bobby and Jim shared frustrated looks and followed them. There was a faint trail of footprints that Dean had left in the mud leading up to the cemetery. Bobby surveyed them. "Damn idjit's barefoot," he sighed. The Winchesters at least had the decency to look guilty for a moment before they glared at each other and started into the cemetery.

The trail was easier to follow once it hit the woods, since Dean had snapped off branches and crunched down leaves in his wake. "Dean!" John called out, looking into the dark expanse.

Sam glared at him. "Look who suddenly cares," he muttered under his breath.

John stopped short. "I'm not going to take that attitude from you," he growled at Sam. Sam whirled around, but before Bobby or Jim could stop them, a scream tore through the forest.

"Dean!" Sam cried, diving after the scream. "Dean!"

The silence in the forest now was deafening. Sam had never thought he would want to hear his brother scream, but at least that had given him some sort of connection to Dean, let him know he was still out there, somewhat nearby. He didn't even care anymore that John was right behind him, he was glad for any support at all.

_Please, just don't let there be another shifter,_ he begged silently. He ran, breaking the branches his brother had left behind him, just barely searching for the broken twigs that signaled his brother's path. He noticed it start to weave and he sped up, barely noticing when he hit the ground.

He moved to get up, kicking slightly at whatever had tripped him, stopping dead when the something whimpered and pulled away. He shot up and collapse beside the wet, shivering heap of his brother. "D'nt h'rt m'," he mumbled, curling in on himself. Sam hauled him up into his arms, feeling Dean's forehead. Of course, he was burning up. "G'st." Dean struggled against him weakly, an elbow grinding into his stomach. "N' g'st."

Sam frowned, trying to understand what Dean was saying. He continued to wriggle and whine pathetically, nothing intelligible coming out of the noises of distress he was making. Sam shushed him gently, stroking his hair and rocking him. "It's OK, everything's OK."

Dean settled, turning his face so that his feverish eyes met Sam's. "Sam?" he asked, coherency leaking back into his speech now that he had something to latch onto. Sam almost felt a lurch of happiness before he realized that his name was said with the same blankness as before.

"Yeah, Dean, it's Sam."

Dean sniffled, his body shuddering and a small sob escaping his throat. "Sam," he said, sounding close to tears. "My mom's dead and there's monsters everywhere."

And that was so true that there was nothing left to say but, "I know, Dean," and watch Dean go silent and still, tears flowing down his cheeks. John moved to pull Dean into his arms, but Sam shrugged him away and picked his brother up, leaving him standing behind him. Bobby tapped John on the shoulder and they walked back to the house.

Sam took Dean straight to the bedroom, washing the mud off his brother's face and from the small scrapes all over, taking off his sopping clothes and replacing them with his own clean ones that were looser on Dean. Dean didn't move, and if Sam didn't see the tears streaming from Dean's open eyes, he would have said Dean was unconscious. He wiped the tears from Dean's face and laid him into bed, tucking the covers over him. "You'll feel better in the morning," he said.

He wasn't sure it was a lie. Dean crawled into his bed sometime in the night, and would speak in the morning. He ate a good breakfast, followed Sam as he went about his day, looking at possible hunts, fixed Jim's disposal while no one was looking, and started on a Rubik's cube. He simply wouldn't speak the whole day. Or the next. Or the next.

"You know, he did this when Mary first died," John finally said on day five. It was the first thing he'd said to Sam since they'd argued. "Just wouldn't talk. I swear, he'd take my hand and just look at me and I knew it'd be OK. He was the only thing that kept me from being some sad drunk in a gutter somewhere." _Max's childhood, _Sam thought, but he kept silent. "But hell, he wouldn't say a word."

He looked over at Dean, who had started on a 500 piece puzzle Bobby had gotten him after he solved the Rubik's cube. Sam had never solved a Rubik's cube in his life. His throat constricted. Just how clever was Dean without him even knowing? "Why'd you do it?" he finally asked, because he'd been dying to know since he found out.

John rubbed at his face, sighing. "Because he let me. All around me there were monsters and people dying and I needed to have power over something." He looked at Sam sadly. "I deserved every word you said to me, you know."

Sam nodded. "I get it, though, I guess." He flinched at the number of times he'd lashed out at Dean because he felt small or weak. If he'd been drunk, he'd probably have hit Dean a couple of times too. "And I know you were trying."

"Sometimes, trying isn't enough," John whispered, watching Dean quickly sift through pieces to find one he was missing.

He suddenly stopped, staring at the pieces for a long time before standing and coming to sofa where Sam and John were sitting. Without so much as a sound, he sat beside John and took his hand, meeting his eyes with a small smile. John's eyes were full of tears, but before he could say anything, Dean stood back up again and went back to the puzzle.

Sam smiled at his brother. "He's gonna be OK, Dad."

_This is most likely the second to last chapter. I was thinking of extending it into one big, mongo chapter, but it just didn't feel right, so I'll upload tomorrow or Friday._


	13. End

_Here we go – the final installment. It's been a good ride, y'all, and I do hope some of you steady reviewers check out my later stories – I live to entertain. :D_

_Disclaimer: Alas, I don't own. I haven't even seen Season 7 yet._

It was a month, going on two, before Dean spoke again. It was so quiet that Sam wasn't sure anymore if he was just imagining it, and since John had taken off on another hunt, he couldn't double check with him. "Did you just say something, Dean?"

Dean looked up from the sofa where he'd been toying with his jeans for a few minutes now. "I said I remember," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Thought you should know."

Sam sighed and sat down beside Dean. "Yeah?" he asked. "And? Am I still cozy?"

Dean smirked but didn't answer, twirling his fingers into a small tear over his knee. Sam wanted to patch it, still wanted to wrap his brother up in a big soft blanket and feed him hot chocolate and cheeseburgers for the rest of his life, doting and cuddling like Dean deserved. There were small tears in Dean's eyes, and Sam pulled him into a hug, Dean relaxing into his arms.

"It's all going to change, now," Dean croaked. "I won't be important anymore."

Sam pushed Dean out to arm's length. "What do you mean, Dean? Of course…"

"No, Sam," Dean sighed, shaking his head and putting his hands on Sam's arms. "Look. Dad's gone. He didn't even stick around until I was normal again."

"He just…"

"I know, Sam. I'm not saying he doesn't love me. He does. You think I don't realize how much you must have tried to find me? Hell, I was gone without a trace and you tracked me down, I still don't know how. But he left me when I never would'a left him. And you… Sam, I couldn't ask for a better brother, but this is gonna fade and you're going to be your own bitchy, independent self again. And that's ok. Really, it is."

Sam could feel the lump forming in his throat. "It's not, Dean."

"Hey," Dean said softly, shaking him lightly. "It is. It's just the way we function, right? And it's OK. But it was nice. For a while. Being the center of attention, having everyone caring about me all the time. It was nice not knowing what's out there, about what happened to Mom." His voice cracked a little. "And it sucks, going back. But I'm OK."

"Dean, you never let me care about you," Sam croaked. "You always push me away and say you're fine."

"I know, Sam. I do that because if I asked once I'm afraid I'd never stop asking. It'd hurt too much to have you do your own things the way you guys do, and I know that's important to you and Dad. It's who you are."

Sam brushed his tears on his shoulder, laughing bitterly. "Typical, Dean. Everything sucks for you and here you are, comforting me."

Dean shrugged, a very-Dean-like grin creeping onto his face. "It's who I am, bitch."

"Jerk," Sam replied automatically, and they grinned at each other like little kids.

There was a small flicker of Dean's eyes that told Sam that Dean would just file this hurt away like he did all the others he had gone through, but he ignored it. There were just things about Dean that he would never get to, and this was one of the many. How could he possibly make it better except by staying by Dean and loving him in the only ways he could?

Besides, Dean was back, and that meant he was invincible once again.

**End.**

_I hope that was an OK ending! I'll be posting another story soon – it'll be somewhat different from this one, but it'll be Dean focused (I am undeniably a Dean girl) and probably earlier seasons because they're just my sandbox. Check them out if you want, don't if you don't. You're a free person and you can do as you like._

_But enough self pimping! Thanks for reading this far, and I really hoped it was good! :D_


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